Also, I totally hear you — Xanax would’ve been great, but alas, there’s some shit about ethics where they won’t give it to me because I don’t actually have anxiety? I KNOW, right, what the shit? This IS America, right? Family gatherings + Jesus’ birthday = special dispensation. That’s in the Bible: “And lo, distributed among them, there were delicious medications, and yea, they were happy. OK, well…not really HAPPY, but they didn’t hit anyone, and so there was peace on earth, and sedated goodwill toward men.”
P.S. I will spend today baking MANY cookies; those are almost Xanax if you eat enough of them.
P.P.S. That whiskey is not for me. That shit is like having one of those hippie honey cough drops in your drink. Ugh.
I think I might be out of blogs, y’all, sorry. Feel free to flesh out my list by leaving YOUR favorites in the comments.
And here are seven (interesting?) things about me:
If I haven’t had at least one cup of coffee by around 11 a.m., you probably do not want to talk to me.
I am way too self-conscious about my cleavage.
I have the best friends in the world and a few of them have been amazing beyond words this past year. I can’t even. I love you guys.
Having said that, I firmly believe life would be sweeter if my drinking water were laced with a very low dose of Xanax.
My dairy addiction is severe enough that, if my milkshake did, in fact, bring all the boys to the yard, I’d probably be more interested in the milkshake than the boys. (Related: I often see a guy walking his dog, and I have no interest in the guy, but want to stop him and chat so I can play with his dog…which I swear is not a metaphor.)
There’s so much good stuff coming on TV this fall that I’m kind of excited to be antisocial and have no life.
I swallow, but not just because I’m awesome and happen to love it. I also think spitting is messy and frankly unladylike. (Also, where am I spitting? In theory, I’m in my home, or his home. Am I supposed to keep a cup nearby, like if I chewed tobacco?) And I certainly don’t want to wash a guy’s…deposit off my body or out of my nice sheets. Gross. I am not a ho; ergo, you are not Superman-ing me.